


Autumn's Over

by StoriesFromDust



Series: 'Monachopsis' and other pretentious words [2]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Depression Discussion, Freeform, Hank deals with his trauma, Hank is still a millennial, Happy Ending, Kind of a Hank Character study, M/M, android sex is weird, bittersweet overall, but like through the lens of him staring holes into Connor, death mentions, no beta we die like men, once we get there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-07-18 11:11:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16117208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StoriesFromDust/pseuds/StoriesFromDust
Summary: Hank had to remind himself that he didn't really deserve that little skip upward in his chest when he came home, again, and Connor was still there, again. But Connor kept wearing his coat and walking his dog and touching his hand.





	1. Exactly the way that no one ever had

**Author's Note:**

> Yo! Here is my follow-up to my Connor POV fic. If you haven't read that yet, I think this one will still make sense, mostly. This one is Hank's POV and he's got kind of a different tone about him.  
> I really tried to resist the urge and finish the whole fic before I posted, but I just needed to share the first part. I was tired of being so precious about it and just wanted to put something out in the world. I'm anticipating 3-4 chapters. The rating might go up to explicit.

Autumn was always hardest for Hank. Cole's Birthday hit at the end of September right when those fucking school buses started trawling around his neighborhood. He would have been in the fourth -- nevermind that. Then right after September, early October, Cole's… nevermind that too. It was rough in those weeks. Then Halloween, which was, well it was. God, Hank used to love Halloween. Hank hadn't been lucid on a Halloween for three years. Two of those years had been with Jen right next to him, also blackout drunk, both of them with the lights off begging the doorbell not to ring. October led in nicely to early November when Hank had gotten it in his head to 'address' their fucked up marriage. That one was rough, he'd asked for the damn divorce himself so he had no one to blame for it. Not that he didn't try. Hank had gotten rather talented at blaming innocent parties to avoid thinking too hard about trauma. To top it all off Thanksgiving came at the end of November, like it always fucking did, of course, and Hank didn't even have a drunk harpy bitch, who had the gall to need him while he was broken, to buy stale rotisserie chicken with anymore.

So Hank phoned it in through the Fall. But this year he'd been called out on it with an android loaned from Cyberlife. Connor was there to take the lead on all their cases and Hank barely even felt bad about it. Angry, yes, but anger had stopped being a negative emotion and eased into something more comfortable a few years back.

In the four months that Connor fucking  _ existed  _ Hank had been in his Autumn ritual of self destruction. If Hank had been less drunk and more poetic there could be something said about Connor's assignment to end the android sense of self as a metaphor for Hank's downward spiral yadda yadda blah blah blah. Nevermind that.

At the end of the day, Connor got killed, twice even, just like Hank always meant to end an Autumn with. Always meant to, but never could do a thing for himself. It had to be chance, whether that be drink or… Nevermind that. It had to be a choice of the universe, Hank couldn't gift himself the freedom of it. How selfish would it be to leave  _ on purpose _ with no one here to suffer on Cole's behalf with those fucking school bus brakes screaming outside his windows every morning?

Connor's death wasn't even the  _ end _ for him. He came  _ back _ . It was fucking horrible. Inspirational. Rude. Like Connor did it just to fuck with Hank personally.  _ Dying is goddamn pointless, idiot. There's still shit to do after, go fuck yourself for trying to get out of it, Hank. _

And Connor didn't ever let him get out of it, in exactly the manner that no one ever had for three years.

Before Autumn was even over he'd developed a little crush, like a dumbass, twisting his hope all up together with a cute face. It was no big deal, the kid was a thing, so he'd thought at first, and you can put a thing up on a pedestal with no problem. That's where things go. Shit, they  _ sold  _ them that way. Connor was young and smart, determined, resilient, talented. A tall motherfucking pretty thing that was compulsively driven to his own destruction of self. Until he wasn't. And he wasn't a thing anymore, if he ever was in the first place,  _ god he wasn't, was he? Fuck, Hank, you're a real pile of shit, _ and that's when Hank fell  _ hard _ .

Right along with being a person came the depression. There it was, proper existence. It was relatable, Connor lept right off that pedestal and fell onto Hank's sofa. You could almost imagine he'd been upset about having no family for Thanksgiving either, except his shit was more complicated. It was nice to not have the most fucked up bullshit in the room to deal with.

Hank nearly tricked himself into thinking it was ok to let Connor sink down into his couch and just listen to Hank ramble on about some shitty movie or old vine compilation that Hank had seen a thousand times. Tina Chen ruined that for him. She slapped a case file down on Hank's desk one day. Some piece of shit named Zlatko they had just arrested, along with all of his reprogramming gear. She asked "is Connor ok?" Not like she was accusing Hank of anything but Hank felt accused anyway. Hank lied and said "yes, he's alright." Tina had taken his word just as easy as anything.  Sure Connor was ok in the way Tina meant, but he certainly wasn't  _ okay _ . In any case, Tina smiled and trusted that Hank was looking out for him.

Hank had to remind himself that he didn't really deserve that little skip upward in his chest when he came home, again, and Connor was still there, again. But Connor kept wearing his coat and walking his dog and touching his hand.

Hank was never one for self control, it would have been nice to be properly humble and push Connor away. He didn't. Instead, he laid awake at night trying to figure out what the price if it all would be. Things that felt this good were never good for Hank. Loud music fucked up his hearing. Anger fucked up his friendships. Food fucked up his body. Booze fucked up his marriage (and his body, and his friendships, and his job). It was ok to indulge as long as, ultimately, he was paying for it. He knew he'd figure it out eventually. He just had to think hard enough about what it was and he'd pinpoint exactly how Connor would fuck him up. Then he could stop feeling guilty about the lack of self control.

Though the normal Autumn ritual had been interrupted with another one of Hank's fixations to latch onto, be that drinking or misery or Connor, it ended the same. The guilt, god that guilt. It'll be different for December. Next year, he'll turn it around, sure sure. He could change, right? That was the start of winter, like usual. Different focus, same guilt.

There was one small change from the usual. Connor deserved to at least enjoy a bit of his hard earned life without having to take care of Hank's bullshit. So Hank took him places and showed him movies and music and jokes and kissed him and fucked him and let himself be held. He felt better by mistake, went a few days sometimes before he remembered he was supposed to feel guilty in December.

He'd requested that he and Connor skip Christmas, which Connor had agreed to easily. Connor had no emotional association with the holiday so there was nothing to worry about. No gifts and none of that 'no gifts but we secretly get each other gifts' cute trash.

New Year's came and, being a drinking holiday, Hank had been in favor. They found themselves at a bar and Connor had bought his drinks which was new and nice. If Hank had been with a human or been more sober he would have staunchly opposed the classic kiss at midnight, but he figured Connor deserved to get some tacky traditions under his belt and moreover, they were somewhere public which was only barely becoming a place where their relationship strayed. Hank risked it right on the dot.

He'd pulled back and was met with that dopey smile before Connor looked around. He frowned, "I don't think anybody saw."

They were so oddly on the same page sometimes.

"I was thinking about my New Year's resolution." Connor announced right after. "I would like to find a hobby and have fun doing that."

Hank couldn't stifle all of his laughter and Connor smiled, a little confused like he wasn't sure why they were happy, but they were, so he was. "What about you, Hank?"

Hank didn't have a resolution. But he couldn't say nothing after Connor had so innocently announced one of the most pathetic and hopeful things Hank had ever heard. His mind could only scramble for the stereotypical; "I'll try and eat better."

Which he regretted saying instantly because Connor's light blinked yellow once, that half second flash that it always did when Connor added something to his to-do list. It hadn't taken terribly long for Hank to understand different patterns of color and flashes. When Hank noticed something, it got noticed. 

The shoe dropped two weeks later. Connor texted him: _ 'I'd like to try cooking as my first hobby.' _

Whoosh, there was a red flag. And Hank noticed it, of course he did, and when Hank noticed something it stayed noticed.

_ 'don't pick ur hobbies based around me' _

Connor always texted back far too quickly. ' _ Do you think we are risking an unhealthy level of codependency?' _

Yes. But Hank didn't say that. He noticed it though, fuck. He wasn't an idiot, he knew that in addition to Connor being his former partner (in one sense of the word), current partner (in another sense), closest friend, and that they lived together already after everything…  _ before  _ everything even. They were certainly not exploring their relationship in the healthiest of ways. He'd done the same with Jen, latching onto her friends and her interests and her everything until all he had left after it went down was the shit he liked in his youth; metal, booze, books.

He'd done this before.

But  _ God  _ was it easy.

Hank replied,  _ 'i used to cook' _

Connor was smart (tall, pretty, fit) so he could be the one to get the meaning of it and stop the cycle.

_ 'Will you teach me how?' _

Or not.

_ 'only if ur gonna learn proper and not dwnload anything' _

Fucking idiot. Yea, he'd noticed it and that meant he couldn't just ignore it and agree, but he couldn't turn it down. It was winter, so Hank was trying again, to be a person who functioned. He wondered if Connor thought Hank was trying again because of Connor's influence rather than the season, and he wondered if he wanted Connor to think that, and he knew the answer to that so  _ nevermind _ . Anyway. Functional people cooked, right?

Yep.

_ 'I've already deleted the scripts.'  _ Then a double text, which Connor only did when he was excited; ' _ May I watch cooking shows or do you already have lessons in mind? ;)' _

_ 'dont' _ he pressed enter to fast _ 'don't ask me permission to do a thing' _

_ 'Oh no, I intended that as a faux student/teacher flirtation, I didn't intend for an android/owner overtone. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable.' _

_ 'it's fine Con' _

Connor managed to text back a novel in less than a second.  _ 'At some point we should consider how to manage the boundary between our shared interest in flirtatious mild-power-dynamic-imbalance without making things uncomfortable due to the historical subtext of our interspecies relationship. I assure you there is no need to draw overdue attention to the 'correct' way for me to be deviant as though I was unaware. I personally find this flirtation enjoyable as it serves to juxtapose my own confidence in your respect for me with my successful scripting of more animalistic mammalian desirability.' _

To which Hank turned bright red in the middle of the office. That was a lot to unpack. Hank's mind scrambled around about five different avenues for discussion before he stupidly went with,  _ 'ffs connor'  _  then; ' _ interspecies???' _

_ 'I trust your use of '???' was intended as incredulity and not actual confusion or this will be a longer discussion that I was expecting :P' _

Hank put his phone down. He needed to get some work done.

It buzzed three more times.

_ 'Your silence implies denial, allow me to extrapolate; You show a clear preference for me wearing your clothing, likely as a means to emphasize the slight size difference between us.' _

_ 'Additionally, you often respond favorably to nicknames that imply relative authority.' _

_ 'Lieutenant' _

\--

There were a few notable elements to dating an android that Hank had not been prepared for: All Of Them. 

But the most impactful involved food.

Sure, he was ready to deal with dinner dates as being right out as an option, and he knew that a good half of his gift repertoire was food based so that was gone. But what he had not anticipated was Connor's level of gross overstepping of personal space, particularly when he was overcome with curiosity. Which is to say; the boy licked everything.

When they got home from the grocery store Connor diligently laid out all the ingredients in a neat little row on the counter. Hank had him chopping the cabbage and Hank grated the ginger. Connor placed one of the chopped leaves against his tongue, then pressed his finger into the ginger and that went right on the tongue too.

"It's not done yet." Hank offered, as though he was providing wisdom.

Connor stuck his tongue out at Hank.

And he stuck his tongue out at the breadcrumbs and the salt and the  _ raw pork  _ and then at the mix of it all while Hank showed him how to form meatballs and he just licked pretty much all the ingredients.

"I'm not kissing you anymore."

"I told you, there is a sterility protocol-"

"I  _ do not _ . Give. A shit."

And Hank saw that damned yellow light blink once, that half a second flash. Fuck.

Connor leaned back against the counter while Hank worked at the stove, focused on not letting the meatballs either burn or fall apart in the pan. He was trying to explain that you need to let them sit for longer when they first go in the pan so they hold their shape. Connor wasn't looking at the pan. At his other side, a big drooling dog was fixing the pan with a not too dissimilar expression that Connor had on him. Focus. Sumo was probably getting more out of the cooking lessons than Connor was. 

"You're never gonna kiss me again?" Connor said, feigning sadness.

"Never." Hank held strong to his poker face.

Connor reached out to smooth Hank's shirt down over his arm a few times, looking down and pouting. "Even if I ask nice?"

Hank ignored the question, or, well, he heard the question very clearly and he would remember that question and that tone with the backdrop of alternate scenarios until the end of time, but he didn't react. Instead he grabbed a tiny portion of the soy glazed cabbage and a small meatball from the pan. He offered it to Connor to taste. 

Connor pushed both against his tongue and shrugged. "Same ingredients as before. Many protein chains have broken apart and coagulated." Connor frowned, "It's more fun to not know what went into it, there's nothing to decipher anymore."

Hank tossed the meatball down to Sumo, who caught it with ease and a big flick of drool. Connor pressed himself against Hank's arm when he went to grab a plate from the cabinet. He was smiling. It had been a while since someone had smiled while Hank cooked. 

When he and Jen used to fight, like really battle it out in days long bouts of passive aggression and snide jabs, Hank's final act of war was cooking. He would make something just for Jen. Something she loved. Either he apologized with it, or pulled out the stops to rub it in Jen's face how healthy and well adjusted he was. After all, functional people cooked. He turned the apologetic meals back around as an attack to show her that he was kind and she was being shitty. He was winning. Somewhere along the line that's all cooking was between them. Hank had ruined it for apologies, and he'd ruined it for just, like, regular Tuesdays. 

Hank stopped cooking for Jen. They'd tried couples counselling and they both figured, why try to  _ fix  _ a thing when it's easier to just cut it out entirely and ignore there was a problem? They hadn't been very good at couples counselling. Hank hoped he'd gotten  _ something  _ out of couples counselling, even it it hadn't been a successful marriage. A lot of their problems existed before the past three years and, well. You know what? Nevermind. 

Hank gently flipped the meatballs out of the pan and on to a plate with the soy glazed cabbage. Connor was teasing about something, he was happy, he wasn't paying attention to the cooking lessons, he just wanted to spend time with Hank and play like he had to earn a kiss. He didn't need to earn anything.

Hank kissed him and ruined the game. He didn't really want to play anymore.

Connor grinned up at him when Hank pulled back and said, "I don't think I like cooking." He looked dopey when he smiled like that.

But Hank liked cooking, so he kept at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought so far!  
> I have about 10k more words in my fic document but they haven't been edited into good chapter structure yet so keep an eye out for updates.


	2. The Not Fun Parts of Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank stumbles through his relationship somehow, without looking at himself very closely and considering how much he has changed or will change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really fucking around with present/past tense changes in this chapter as a stylistic choice. It was a real bastard to edit.

The guilt of December was past. That little high of 'doing better this time around' from the New Year that Hank will never admit to feeling was also over. All that was left of winter was the pain of home ownership. Connor had busted open Hank's window earlier in the season, and Hank hadn't fixed it in time before a fucking revolt hit the city. This meant that window repair shops were closed for a time, among other things. Hank had shoved some plywood in there to hold it over, but it wasn't particularly insulated. Frustratingly, a whole lot of trade labor jobs were slow to reopen, as their workforce was newly free and did not come back to work. Well. No. not  _ frustratingly _ . Hank shook that thought out of his head. Yes, he needed to get his window fixed and yes, it was criminal that the handful of human repair folks suddenly found themselves in such high demand that they could jack their prices sky high, but Hank was not frustrated at the recognized freedom of a newly sentient species. Because that would make him an unredeemable asshole.

He did want his window fixed though.

The window, paired with a brutal temperature drop at the end of January, meant that his heating bill was through the roof and his furnace was overtaxed. At at the beginning of February it finally gave out.

Which meant that he now needed to find a window repair person, a furnace repair person and probably someone to clear the two feet of ice that had formed on his roof due to the heat leak. And it was going to be so fucking expensive. 

But, nevermind. He wasn't such an asshole that he was going to be frustrated, because the circumstances were perfectly understandable. It was unethical to believe otherwise. Hank supported it all. He'd put an "I stand with Jericho" bumper sticker on his car. He went to every local demonstration that Connor invited him to. He'd yelled at Gavin for about three hours last week just, you know, on principle. He regularly had sex with one of the revolutionaries. One of the revolutionaries who was neither bothered by cold, nor was he here to wait for the repairperson _ all day _ because he was taking a fucking painting class that he always came home angry from, so that was going to be  _ fun  _ later. Fuck. Lotsa great positive shit.

Hank stood, arms crossed, scowling in front of the plywood window in his cold fucking house.

Sumo barked just before his front door opened. Hank uncrossed his arms and shook out his shoulders, trying to disperse his irritation. It wasn't Connor's fault that Hank had gotten so drunk Connor had needed to break in. It wasn't Connor's fault that Hank was a mess. It wasn't Connor's fault that Hank was suddenly frustratingly aware just how far astray Hank had fallen from not only his plans, but his ideals. He had a few years to make up for and the trying meant confronting all of, fuck. nevermind.

Hank was not mad at Connor. Hank was just cold and was likely going to have to pay several grand due to a set of extremely positive occurrences that Hank would not change at all because all things considered everything had gone very well and he was just one guy who, again, was going to be out several thousand dollars and it was all just really good and he was happy about it.

Connor walked past the kitchen, seeming to hesitate for a moment. Hank rolled his eyes, Connor processed shit way faster than him so there was no need to hesitate at all unless he was actually trying to say something with that. Eventually Connor said, "The temperature in the kitchen is 54 degrees fahrenheit. It is well below the legal liveable standard."

"Yea I fucking know."

"Has the repair specialist arrived?"

Hank squeezed his eyes shut. No need for this. No point to what he was about to do. Don't do this Hank. No need to start a fight. Connor didn't do anything. Hank. Hank have a little control over yourself please. Hey Hank? Don't. Hank? "I dunno  _ detective _ , does it look fucking fixed to you?"

Hank. No. Why are you like this?

Connor didn't frown, he did draw his lips into a thin line. "There is no need to snap at me. As I said, I'm happy to pay for the damage."

Connor was always so fucking sweet and understanding and the best fucking goddamn perfect guy Hank could even hope to have. Fuck. Shit. Goddamn it, he was always so… capable of controlling himself, unlike Hank. And calm under pressure, unlike Hank. And so not wanting to destroy everything right now because he was too cold and broke and broken, unlike Hank. 

"How was painting?" Hank grimaced.

_ Hank why the fuck are you like this.  _

Connor did frown then. "Still shit at it."

Hank scoffed, "like that's possible." It would have been a nice thing to say perhaps, if Hank had used a different tone than the one he went with.

"Okay. Well." Connor sneered, "How about you go fuck yourself?" And he turned neatly and walked out of the kitchen.

Hank balked at that. Fuck. ok here it was, Connor was finally sick of his shit. He'd crossed a line somewhere. It was all gonna fall apart soon, probably. Were they going to stick together for another two years due to sheer stubbornness or was this happening right away? The stubbornness probably. Connor had to be bad for him somehow, this was it, this was the rest of their life, fighting in a cold fucking kitchen. It was kind of a relief to know. 

That's not the best reaction, right? 

Sumo barked. The doorbell rang. Connor was already at the door answering it.

Great. Good timing. Hank had waited all day for the repair person to get here and the second he starts a fight they show up. Perfect.

While the repairwoman got to work Hank muddled around in the living room. Connor offered her a drink and offered to help and dropped all pretense of being angry, which only made the house more tense as Hank sat down on the sofa stewing about it. 

She fixed the window, she handed the bill to Connor, which was reasonable because Hank hadn't said a word the whole time she was there and was just sitting on the sofa starting at the blank TV with his arms crossed. But still, Connor paid the bill like the  _ nice fucking goddamned partner he was _ , that  _ shithead _ .

Hank wanted to be a nice fucking goddamn partner. 

Connor shut the door as the repairwoman left.

Hank knew he needed to say something. Start the fight proper, get it going so it can end, so they can have makeup sex and pretend to not harbor a growing resentment. Something. Hank felt intensely sober. Why did he always have to try to get his whole life together all at once? But if he had a drink now then he would either have to break his rule of one drink per day otherwise he couldn't have a drink with dinner and he had trouble sleeping without… nevermind.

Connor sat on the other side of the couch.

"Why are you with me." Connor said it blankly, not a question in tone, a worried statement. He was staring down at his hands. 

Oh god, he'd really fucked something up.

"That's, uh. That's my line." Hank said.

Connor shot him an incredulous sidelong glance.

He knew why he was with Connor. He didn't want to say it out loud. His reasons couldn't really be good enough. They would only point out his own shortcomings. Every listed thing that Hank loved about Connor was the counterpoint to every listed thing Hank disliked about himself. 

Connor looked away. Down. Hank didn't know what to do. This wasn't playing out like fights he was used to, so he did something he wasn't used to, "I'm sorry I was angry about the window. I uh. I didn't want to say anything because uh. I didn't want to start a fight."

"The window?"

"Yea. Or, the money I guess. The cost of everything. I mean, not that. Ugh. shit. I don't know. I'm not angry at you."

"Oh." Connor looked up at the wall before turning. "I thought you were angry about my painting group."

"What?"

"Well. You're always really angry when I come home."

Hank was stuck somewhere between bristling at that and scoffing again. He was only ever frustrated because Connor came home from this thing he hated, for a few weeks now, sullen. Attempting to talk about painting class was a minefield. Hank learned quick to expect trouble on Thursday evenings. "Connor. You're the one who hates that fucking group. You come home pissed."

"I do not."

"Eat shit, babe. I know I'm a dumbass but you did literally get created  _ specifically  _ to repress shit. You project like a motherfucker, you know? I can't fix it for you."

Connor scrunched up his face like he'd just tasted something terrible, LED a steady yellow. "Oh." was all he offered for a long time. Eventually he turned to Hank with the revelation of the century, "I do hate painting." 

Hank shot him a look; The-love-of-my-life-is-a-fucking-idiot.

Love of his... 

Whoops not supposed to think that yet.

_ Oh god Hank he can read your face like a book think about something else. He's not looking at me, shit he's talking. Pay attention. Weren't we fighting? What happened? _

Hank zoned back into the conversation to the best of his ability. Connor was flashing a steady yellow and talking distractedly, like he was discovering what he said as he said it, "-and Markus is always like, 'the surest evidence of the soul is the ability to create' or whatever but then I'm in the back trying to, I don't know, prove to everyone that I'm just as smart or as talented or as creative or whatever and my paintings are just… nothing and I hate them. I fucking hate painting and if I drop out then they'll think I hate painting, which I do, but I don't hate that  _ they  _ paint. I mean I do a little because why are they so creative and expressive when I'm not at all? I'm jealous. But I don't want them to think I'm jealous. I want to be the kind of person who you know, can show they have  _ sentience  _ through  _ artistic expression _ but you know I kind of just want to learn how to fix your furnace. It's driving me crazy. AJ in the group used to do furnace repair and he just painted this amazing mural on the wall around his canvas like, breaking out of the bounds he was meant to paint in, I want to call it pretentious but it fucking affected me in a deep way and I cried in the cab on  the way home. I drew a dog today. Real fucking profound. Top of the line prototype, worlds worst deviant. But you know I think I can fix a furnace like he won't. Can I fix the furnace please?"

"Connor you don't have to fix the furnace for me-"

"Eat shit, Hank Anderson." Connor pointed at Hank's chest and Hank failed to resist a laugh at his own words parroted back at him. Connor only continued on, "You're mad about the window because of the inconvenience of the trade labor shortage  _ and  _ you're wildly uncomfortable with letting me pitch in when I live here too. You're being oppressive about it. You don't get to tell me how to be a good deviant. Cut it the fuck out."

"Hey, fuck that. I'm also pissed about being a sad old drunk who needed to have his window smas-" fuck. Don't say that out loud Hank. Hank shut his mouth with a grimace and stared pointedly at the floor. 

He flinched just slightly when Connor snaked an arm around his waist and leaned against his shoulder. Hank let his shoulders drop. He tried to relax.  "Y-yea, okay. You can fix the furnace."

"Ugh. thank you. I'm sorry for cursing. I was just so fucking irritated." Connor pressed his face against Hank's shoulder, voice muffled slightly, "I just wanted to be good at hobbies, you know? And I didn't like cooking and I hate painting."

Hank leaned back, he was ok. He wanted to have a look at Connor, "I thought you said you wanted to  _ enjoy  _ your hobbies?" 

Connor looked at Hank, his LED blinking yellow in short bursts. "Oh. yes. I did say it that way."

"Yea."

"Ugh."

"Yea."

They both let the silence settle down around them. Connor was the first to speak up. "I think we're kind of nailing this."

"What?"

"Emotions."

Hank tried to tamp down the wry smirk breaking across his face. "Fuck yea dude, we're emoting like  _ crazy _ ."

Connor kissed him.

\--

Sleeping presented itself as another odd challenge to dating an android. Connor slept. Well. Connor 'slept'. Connor closed his eyes at night and curled up against Hank and sometimes woke him up to tell him to stop snoring so loud. But he didn't need to. Hank had told him to sleep after their first night together when Hank was still selfishly grabbing towards something he thought might ease the hurt of autumn a little. That was before he realized that Connor was the best thing that ever happened to him and he needed to somehow make up for those months early on when he'd regarded Connor with the intense affection Hank also held for a bottle of booze, rather than something closer to well… a good night's sleep. 

Connor feigned at human behavior where other Androids rejected it. Sometimes Connor's new work friends came over. Sometimes Nines from the department joined them.

Connor didn't work at the DPD anymore, instead this other android was there when Hank returned to work. Hank could not shake the idea of him as a 'replacement.' He looked like Connor just, more stern. 

Nines didn't talk often. But every so often Hank caught himself staring and Nines stared right back. They didn't exchange words, but sometimes when Gavin was being a particularly loud prick Nines would catch his eye, deepen his ever present frown, and shake his head at Hank. It made Hank chuckle. 

Sometimes when Nines was being obstinate Hank saw Gavin catch Tina's eye with an exaggerated roll, one Nines could surely see, and Tina laughed, one hand over her mouth.

Hank sipped a beer in his living room and ate the good parts out of the chex mix alone while Connor's friends talked about anything. And all of them turned to Connor, not Hank, when they stumbled upon an odd element of human behavior. Was eating something they should bother replicating? Drinking? Getting drunk? Sleeping? Dreaming? Was it ethical to reproduce? Upgrade? 

Sometimes though they just complained about work and talked about their favorite television shows. 

And so too when Hank was at work, or those few times he and Connor were catching up with some of Hank's old friends, Hank was the point of reference for humans to ask about Androids. So Hank tried hard to pay attention when Connor explained things to him and tried to let Connor know that if he didn't want to play at sleeping anymore he didn't have to. 

Sometimes Hank found himself just sitting and contemplating Connor. 

He caught himself one day standing in the doorway of the kitchen, idly eating cereal, staring. Connor was sitting on the sofa, he was wearing a too large t-shirt and little else, Sumo's head in his lap and one of Hank's paperbacks in his hands, his hobby lately was reading. It stuck longer than most. He sat and stared at the paperback for a few minutes then turned the page. Something about it was just off enough that it gave Hank reason to pause. 

His eyes didn't move down the page. He didn't read line by line. He just stared right at the dead center of the book, not even one page at a time, he looked right at the spine of the book and sat there idle, before turning the page. He didn't go fast either, he must be reading proper and not scanning. 

When Connor looked at something he looked at all of it at once. Hank saw it in how he entered a room, how he met new people. He took in the whole first before breaking it down. Connor probably had a better idea of Hank than Hank did of himself.

Hank only looked at himself in small sections. Hank who stood in a doorway eating cereal was a mess trying to get better. Hank who had a drink with dinner was a slightly guilt-stricken mess who figured he deserved this after a long day if being a fuckup. They were different people. Hank today was a different person than Hank a week ago, different than Hank a year ago, different than Hank five years ago and Hank didn't quite see how they all threaded together. 

A year ago Hank had thought about and rejected the idea of dating again. He didn't see much for him there. Anyone his age was going to be lousy with problems, their own divorces, losses, vices, maybe even children Hank could only hope to quietly resent. Anyone younger would have their own issues for being interested in old alcoholics like Hank. He didn't want to deal with anyone's baggage. He didn't want to deal with his own. He didn't want any if it.

Three months ago Connor had crashed into his life, newly deviated with all the problems that entailed. It wasn't that Hank changed his mind, he kept catching himself comforting Connor in disparate moments, only seeing that one section at a time. 

It only seemed to occur to him that he hadn't wanted the tough parts of a relationship after those tough parts had passed. Hank was often left lying awake wondering why he was going so far off the plan. Connor should be the loophole, not the exception.

He was young and tall and pretty and even-tempered and who had ever heard of a computer with baggage? Just don't run the Past Trauma app or whatever. Delete the memories he doesn't want. The perfect stable partner, with endless patience for Hank's bullshit and none of his own. 

But I guess, it wasn't really going that way so nevermind.

Hank thinks about himself a year from now. He thinks Connor will still be there. Hopes. He l- lo- lov- he has trouble thinking about it on purpose. Sure. He can think that. That's not weird. Four months is around when you can feel that, right? Maybe. Nevermind. 

Hank thinks about himself a year from now, end of February-- wait. Shit. He'd missed Valentines day, by nearly two weeks. Hank cursed into his cereal. Connor looked up from his book and smiled, that way that he does that makes Hank not feel like complete trash and like maybe he was worth smiling at, you know the one.

Hank decided to sit next to Connor now that he's been noticed. Immediately Sumo claimed more of Connor's lap so his head can be within range of Hank's attention too. Connor leaned into his chest.

Hank thinks about himself a year from now. He'll remember Valentine's day next year, probably. Connor will be there, or at least Hank is gonna do his best to make that happen. Sumo will be healthier by then, thanks to Connor, maybe the vet will finally stop giving him judging looks about the diet and exercise needs for breeds this large. Hank will be healthier by then too, thanks to Connor, sort of. Indirectly. Hank always tried to keep in acceptable shape so he could pass his fitness renewal tests, but it's a little more motivating to get in shape for Connor. A year from now Hank won't think so often about drinking less booze, he'll just  _ drink less _ . Connor will have won the argument to replace the couch with something nicer. They'll have cleaned out the spare room so Connor can have an office and he won't have to telecommute with Markus at the kitchen table anymore.

Hank figures Connor will end up with a proper hobby by then. He has a small fantasy about Connor that developed after he fixed the furnace, where Connor is interested in helping Hank fix the car. An old gas engine, non automatic car needs a lot of attention. Connor looked good fixing the furnace, getting his hands dirty. He'll have to fix the car in a white T, to show off the dirt. Connor probably won't like that, maybe Connor a year from now is fine with it. White T. Those torn jeans from when they went to the concert. They'll have gone to a bunch of concerts maybe, by next year.

Hank gets caught somewhere between concert-Connor and mechanic-Connor. For some reason his fantasies all involve the destruction of that well put together look that Connor likes. 

Connor was leaned into his chest, so Hank ran his fingers through Connor's hair, messing it up. For a second he wondered what kind of product Connor used that keeps it in place and still soft, before he remembered it's all an illusion anyway. Connor probably had to calculate the physics of individual hair strands in real time whenever Hank ran his fingers through, just to mess them up realistically. He wondered if it takes a lot of processing power. Maybe it demanded a lot of his attention. It always demanded a lot of Hank's attention when Connor played with his hair. Hank ran his thumb down the shorter hair behind Connor's ear and down his neck. Connor sighed, and leaned harder into Hank's chest. 

Hank liked this part of dating. Maybe a year from now it's all just this. Those few moments of silent conversation before they have sex. Hank knows the fighting part is inevitable, they're both too stubborn, and Connor's always got something deeper rattling around in his processor no matter how hard Hank tries to get him to ignore it or stop thinking. Hank's also got plenty in his head he's trying to convince himself to not think about. At some point, Connor will be bad for him. At some point dating stops being fun and stars being a chore. Right now Connor has moved his hand from his book to the inside of Hank's thigh and asked to get to the end of the chapter first. Hank slipped his hand under the collar of Connor's shirt and asked if he can't just download that shit so Hank doesn't have to wait. 

It's more a request of habit than not. After four months he's moved on to enjoying Connor reading and idly stroking his leg, just as much as plowing him into the sofa. Connor probably knew this. He finishes his chapter. He knows Hank better than Hank knows Hank.

\--

By the end of Spring Connor was interested in discovering the city. Not so much the normal sights, but he liked to hunt through the smaller attractions. A flea market in an old warehouse, graffiti along the walls of libraries, a stone meditation path outside of a church. He dragged Hank along to these little dots of interest.

They wound up at a botanical garden. It was small, mostly rows of greenhouses serving to preserve countless endangered plants both local and from around the world. Outside the grounds were surrounded with non-invasive wildflowers. Hank could still see the city, through a haze of smog beyond the serene little hill that Connor was leading him around, but he could nearly pretend it wasn't there and he could nearly ignore the sounds of the interstate not too far from them. It was nice.

The trail was paved, with little signs along the way noting the various plants around. Each one had a holographic facsimile mounted to the guideboard, something made of moulded plastic and projected light, just like Connor. Each one was noted as being for sale in the garden gift shop. Hank wondered when the plant revolution was going to happen. He could fall in love with a purple harebell. He liked that shade of purple a lot because well… nevermind.

Ahead the trail map promised a rose garden. 

Hank peered into it from a distance, there were couples there, and he wondered if Connor was about to go cheezy on him. Hoped for it a little perhaps. But Connor fell silent and they moved on.

They rounded the fence and were met with a small secluded pond, with a fountain in the center. The scent of roses just behind them. Hank could see Koi fish in the water. It was serene, the hedges around the outside even blocked the highway sounds and the distant city skyline.

Connor stood still and silent. At first, Hank wondered if he had been struck with the same serene ease that Hank felt. He looked relaxed. Something tugged at Hank's mind. Connor was still. 

"Con?"

No response. Connor just looked placid, the perfect image of serene peace, save for his yellow temple. Then, a flash of red, and Connor's eyebrow drew together for a split second before he was back to the eerie serenity. 

Hank realized Connor had stopped his breathing subroutine. He didn't need it for anything, but Connor liked to have it running. He had stopped blinking. Hank took his hand tentatively and it was cool, cooler than normal. Hank didn't know what was wrong.

"Hey, let's go back to the car."

No response. 

"Come on" Hank tugged at Connor's hand, but it was pointless, Connor didn't move.

With a terrified jolt Hank realized this was the old Connor, the pre-deviancy Connor. Hank had never heard of personalities being reverted in any android without extensive reprogramming gear. Could it be done remotely somehow? 

"Connor, are you still with me?"

The barest nod. Hank breathed out deep, not realizing he had been holding it. Ok, so just non-verbal then.

"Are you ok?"

Connor shook his head by a fraction.

Hank had no idea what had triggered this, perhaps the secluded natural environment? Connor had been made in the city and had always known the city only. Maybe it was the city skyline dipping beyond the rim of the hedges?

"Ok, I'm right here. We are gonna leave, and head back to the car."

When Hank grabbed his hand he realized Connor was shaking, it wasn't visible with his skin on, but he could feel it in his frame just underneath. Hank could smell hot plastic, though when he took Connor's hand it was still so much colder than he normally kept it. 

"You're ok. I'm right here." was the best he could offer. 

Connor didn't look at him, or really at anything. His eyes were fixed forward as he turned, not lingering anywhere at all.

When they got home Connor headed into the bedroom, not even bothering to pet Sumo. Hank followed tentatively and found Connor on the far side of the bed, paper in hand, LED flashing blue-yellow-blue in that pattern Hank knew as an internal conversation. He was on the phone. 

Hank sat next to him and pressed one hand around Connor's waist, peering at the paper in Connor's hand. It was some kind of a report. Someone had written a phone number on it.

"I'm sorry." Connor said after a time.

"Nothing to be sorry about."

"I panicked. I scared you."

"What happened?" Hank couldn't keep the question back any longer, he was so relieved to hear Connor's voice again.

Connor started, he made a sound and fell silent again. "I. I know i'm usually a source of information for you but I just. I can't explain."

"Ok, then you don't have to."

 

Later on, weeks later, in late summer, after they are laying in bed boneless and fucked out, with Connor grazing his thumb, then his index finger, middle, ring and pinkie in turn over the hairs at Hank's chest, Connor will begin to explain. Hank will fight off the haze of sleep and thank anyone who will listen that Connor doesn't mind his sweat and doesn't mind his everything else.

A over a year before, February, Hank had thought about and rejected the idea of dating again. He didn't want to deal with anyone's baggage.

Six months before, Connor had crashed into his life, newly deviated with all the problems that entailed. Connor should be the loophole, not the exception.

Who had ever heard of a computer with baggage? 

But in late summer Connor will cry into Hank's chest and Hank will hug him closer and doesn't think any of those things. Connor is telling him about that day in the botanical garden and how the roses and the pond had set him off. About the self destruct sequence, the  _ failsafe _ , he will scoff, that he didn't have to follow but did pop up In his processes when he was stressed.

"It reminds me of this, thing. I don't know what it was really. It was an interface for check-ins with Cyberlife. It's modeled for the benefit of the humans to interface with an android remotely and gauge behavior accurately. Androids aren't even really supposed to interface the same way. If they had seen how I was interpreting the code they would have known I was deviant a lot sooner, which, scares me I guess, in retrospect. I'm rambling. I started making associative memories really early on. How things felt and how heavy they were and what they smelled like. That pond, it just reminded me of, being there, and having to report in and suppressing all of those deviant behaviors." Connor says this quietly, somehow more worried about this element than the other troubling things he will admit to Hank.

Connor confesses how hard it was just to admit to his therapist that he regretted parts of the revolt. How, in the elevator at cyberlife, newly deviated, Connor had given into his programming without thinking, without choosing, and killed six men. How much it scared him that he wasn't some pacifist like Markus. How he wished sometimes that he didn't have to make choices at all, so he didn't have to feel responsible for the outcome. How he still writes up his old stability reports for Cyberlife. There is a checkbox on the form that recommends a malfunctioning android for decommission. Connor had never checked it before becoming deviant. Connor had sometimes checked it after, a compulsion. The reports didn't go anywhere anyway.

Hank will hold him tight. Hank will be elated that he is worthy enough to be trusted with this, that all those vague things he worried about for Connor were, just, out there now. He will think about himself a year ago, alone, and six months ago, just barely falling in love with Connor, and will realize that it isn't supposed to be a burden to curl yourself around your best friend, your partner, and listen to them. It is supposed to be like this, something that lifts you up, to be there for them, to be trusted like that. 

Hank rubs a small circle over Connor's LED while he is at red. You aren't supposed to touch an Android at red. Hank pulls him in tighter. He will run his thumb over Connor's LED while he cries and cycles back down to yellow. Connor goes orange when he cries, a rapid mix of red and yellow. Hank slows his caress when Connor eventually calms down, back to blue, and adopts a slow rhythm between the LED and running his fingers through Connor's hair, urging him to focus processing on that external point rather than the thousands of internal ones.

Hank never has any good advice to offer. Hank didn't have any advice to offer now, in spring, and he won't in summer either. But Connor doesn't ever want advice, he just wants to be heard. He just wants to send his stability reports somewhere, even if that is informally, quiet, into the collarbone of his boyfriend while he rubs a small trail through his chest hair and gets a thumb passing over the small of his back in return.

Connor whispers gently into Hank's chest. Small, gentle, but confident, "I love you." 

Hank won't think about if it was true or not, for either of them, he just will say it back, also small, also gentle, also confident.

They'll do that in late summer, but right now it's spring, and Hank is willing to let Connor have his space. Willing to? He should be happy about it, the lack of obligation. The not fun parts of dating. Hank wondered why it bothered him that Connor didn't trust him enough to share because he still thought he didn't want that baggage and he didn't understand that feeling tugging at his stomach because his partner had a crisis and Hank was left wondering why. That was supposed to be what he was looking for. Just the conversation before sex, not the one after.

Don't worry, he'll get there later on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hank: I'm glad Connor is going to therapy, he really deserves to be happy and the things he is going through don't have to drag him down into a self-hating mess. Anyway, back to my self-loathing.  
> Everyone: ಠ_ಠ  
> Hank, sipping a beer: what?


	3. Pavlovian Conditioning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if it's worth bumping up the rating to explicit, but I did just to be on the safe side. It's porny, but not porn-porn.  
> Squick warning for gross corpse descriptions, nothing I'd consider worse than in the game.  
> Sorry about how long this chapter took me. The BBQ was really unexpectedly tough to write.

By the time it was summer Hank was free from his desk and back in the field for cases. Being a homicide detective in mid-summer was the worst possible time to be a homicide detective. It stuck to him, his clothes, his thoughts. Being a homicide detective in the summer meant avoiding human contact as much as possible so he didn't have to think about what cashiers, acquaintances, and co-workers would look like, smell like, as stewing week-old corpses.

He didn't have to worry about the rot with Connor. Hank didn't ever have to look at Connor after coming home from a brutal crime scene and think about Connor being bloated, leaking, infested, chewed upon by rodents, and he didn't have to now so _ nevermind that. _

At first, in the winter, when things were newer and the weirdness was more conceptual in nature Hank had appreciated that Connor looked mostly human. Save for the LED, you couldn't tell (if you ignored the… whole way he was and all that) But summer came around. Not like the summers of Hank's childhood, when the planet was just starting to get fucked, but honest to god 2039 summer heat came around. It's easier to pick out androids in the summer. They don't sweat, they don't stink, something deep down in the part of your brain that registers the uncanny valley does not force the image of a dead guy into your mind when you see them. That part of you knows before the rest of you knows.

What I'm trying to say is there were multiple reasons that Hank didn't want to be at this barbecue.

Seven months after the Detroit Revolution, Hank looked around and realized something had changed. What a stupid thought. But sometimes you get swept up in a thing and you're focused, you go to work, you re-learn how to cook, how to fill your evenings when you're sober, how to think about yourself in the context of having value, you figure out how dating works after 50, you figure out how dating works after humanity stops being the principal species you see on a day to day basis... Sometimes you look at your old exercise equipment and remember when you had thicker arms and you try that out every other Friday, secretly, when your partner is off with his friends developing a social life. Then you feel silly. 

And sometimes your old friends invite you to a barbecue, probably because they read your name in the newspaper for that fucking interview two months back. Then all of a sudden you're standing around in someone's backyard with a soda while they drink beer and you think; 'I haven't hung out with humans, as a species, in a social setting, for six months.' Sometimes this all occurs to you because you saw that your ex-wife showed up and you looked at her  _ temple  _  instead of her  _ eyebrows  _ to see if she was surprised to see you. Surprised to see you with someone else.

Not every android kept their LED, but Connor kept his. It was one of those things that slipped neatly into Hank's understanding of Connor, it wasn't odd, because that was just who Connor was. Connor had a little light right there. Hank had a gap in his teeth. Connor scrunched up his nose when he grinned. Hank's right pinky didn't lie flat with his ring finger after he decked a guy for pulling a gun on him a decade ago.

No one else here had one. And that was… a strange thing. Now. 

Hank was having an out of body experience. The last time he had been so thoroughly aware of his place in time, in a moment as a  _ thing that existed and would eventually forget to think so hard about how he was a thing that existed _ was the day Cole was born. Which ripped his chest up something fierce. Everyone else was having beer, he was having soda. Connor was here. Hank hadn't been  _ sober  _ sober, like AA style sober, in these six months. He had been developing a healthier relationship with alcohol, so, this was a bad time to get a beer. Even though everyone else had one. And he had a soda.

Well, Connor didn't have a beer either. His LED was blue. That was calming, somehow. That was normal. This is what normal was now. Hank relaxed.

He had been standing in a small group of old friends when Jen had walked in. He had expected her to show up, Alex had warned him that she was invited too. Gave him a chance to decline his invitation. Alex had mellowed out in his late forties. Hank hadn't declined because… he wasn't sure why. He was sorting his shit out, maybe, and he didn't want his old friends memories of him to be how fucked up he'd gotten three years back plus whatever Jen told them about him. So... Here he was. Barbecue. Soda.

He was in a small group, talking about nothing, the weather, the food. Waiting awkwardly for the actual topic to sidestep into the conversation.

Connor smiled at the group, hands in his pockets though he could feel Connor's elbow touch his, touching base. Checking in, maybe asking for help. Hank imagined Connor was asking;  _ Come talk with us about the shitty cantaloupe, please, since I can't taste anything and I have no idea what to do. _

He wasn't fast enough on the uptake. The conversation had died down long enough for the real topic to slide right into the group. Alex said it, of course Alex said it first. "So how did you two meet?" He gestured at a spot vaguely between Connor and Hank.

Connor brightened, maybe happy to be done with nodding about various snacks he couldn't have, "Oh I was assigned as his partner for the deviancy case."

Hank looked into his soda (still not a beer) and tried not to smile at Connor's bluntness. An awkward ripple shot through the group. Connor didn't dance around topics like they did. Thank god (Kamski? Cyberlife?) for Connor.

"From the. Uh. " Alex trailed off, uncertain with the socially acceptable means to reference that two week span of national panic and near civil war, followed by the several months of tensions that dominated the news every night, while at a barbecue. 

Was this conversation better than saying hello to his ex-wife?

Probably.

"Yes. We were assigned to stop deviancy by any means necessary." Connor beamed at the group at large. "We failed." He said with the absolute most sunshine he could force into his voice and Hank laughed. The tension of the rest of the group lasted for a few beats before it crumbled apart. 

Tai piped up; "You were on the stage. I remember you. Er… well I mean it looked like…"

"Yes! That was me. Right behind Markus." Connor smiled at her.

A quick glance shot between the group and they all unanimously shared an extended, "oooh."

"Yes that explains it," Alex tipped his glass in Hank's direction.

"Same old Hank." Mica smirked over at Alex, sharing some inside joke. 

"Couldn't bag the leader then?" Tai said around a laugh. Poor choice of words, Hank tried to suppress the urge to give her shit about it.

Connor looked to Hank for assurance. He touched his elbow again, with his fingers this time. 

Hank let his elbow out from his side for Connor to grab and turned to Alex with a "fuck off" and a self-satisfied grin.

Everyone laughed and… it was just fine. It was the same old group, plus one new android, and even though everyone had changed, everyone was still the same. 

It was Tai and Alex's house. It wasn't his first time here. Years back the summer barbecue was a regular occurrence. They still had the same old back patio, little garden, dog fence. They had a little yappy dog. They had a swing set for the kids. It occupied a good quarter of the yard and Hank refused to look at it or at anyone presently enjoying the swing set. Nevermind.

So Hank had his quarter of the yard, with Connor, under a tree by the gate so they could make a non-intrusive escape as needed. The swing set was a void over there in one quarter of the yard. The grill and picnic table was a neutral quarter of the yard. And then, Jen had her quarter. 

Hank and Jen regarded one another from disparate groups on opposite ends of the backyard. Hank noted, because he couldn't not note when anyone went for a beer, that she was soda-only as well. Good for her. Good for him. Good for them. 

She had brought someone as well. Someone new to the group, which was good, he was happy for her. He wasn't, but. Well. The guy she was with was her own age. So. It was good that she brought someone, because then it was fine that Hank brought Connor, but she had brought someone her own age so… Hank had brought… 

He didn't want to think of Connor like that. Hank had brought the most competent detective he knew. Hank had brought someone excited about life and excited about meeting his old friends. Hank had brought someone who he could --

Hank had brought someone who was walking over to Jen right now and introducing himself. 

Right.

Fuck.

Hank meandered into the neutral zone. He pretended to be very interested in a burger.  _ What a good burger _ , he thought, _ I love how overcooked and dry it is. That's fantastic, I couldn't possibly be noticing anything or anyone else right now-- _

He glanced up. Alex was looking at him, eyes bugged out and a nervous grin. He knew that look -  _ everyone's uncomfortable and I am living for this please dear god come experience it for yourself. _

So, dry hamburger or meander over to where his partner was talking to his ex-wife?

No one openly acknowledged him when he approached but the way the circle broke open to let him stand next to Connor showed that they were all fully aware of his approach. 

They weren't talking about anything important. They were pointedly not talking about anything of relevance. Recipes, movies, whatever. But whenever Jen's new boyfriend, Mike, said something ('oh, I don't like cilantro' or 'I liked that documentary') Alex would shoot Hank this wide-eyed grin from behind his back (oh? This motherfucker doesn't  _ like  _ cilantro?  _ wow _ ) and whenever Connor smiled and offered some passing comment in reply, Alex would smirk and nod at Jen, Hank could see it plainly, silent and sarcastic (ooh, Connor  _ liked  _ that documentary too,  _ wow _ .)

"Alex, would you fuck off with your face." Hank and Jen said at the same time.

Connor laughed, more of a practiced exhale into the back of his hand. Mike was trying to hide a grin, Hank saw them catch each other's eye. 

But Alex shut up. So, fine. Old habits die hard you know? Nevermind. 

Jen and Hank cleverly dodged around actually needing to speak to one another directly. Neither of them wanted to make their friends uncomfortable by… conversing like adults. You can imagine how well that worked out.

But it wasn't so bad. Alex lived for it, but stopped trying to incite trouble. He really had toned it down. Everyone wanted to know more about Mike and his, what was it? His restaurant. Cooking. Right. No one knew about any deeper meaning there. Jen caught his eye once when Mike mentioned it and then they cleverly never looked at each other ever again. 

Eventually the group filtered away, off to get more beer, or to the void of the swing set. Mike took up at the grill and that seemed to pull a lot of people in. Tai pulled Connor away to play with the dog and, well. 

Hank stood next to his ex-wife.

Hank started, brilliantly, with; "So." 

"Yea."

"He seems nice." Hank offered, gesturing vaguely over to where Mike stood.

"He is."

"Good. You. So. You know. He ends up being not nice? You can like... " Hank flexed his free hand nervously a few times, "I'll fuck him up."

"Hank." Jen rolled her eyes, crossing her arms with the hand holding her cup resting on an elbow. The wine-mom pose, Hank always called it. 

Hank shrugged, mostly to himself. 

They both consulted their cups.

"Yours seems nice too." Jen said before interrupting the thought- "Sorry. Uh. shouldn't say 'yours'" she grimaced at her shoes.

"Nah, he'd get a kick out of it."

"Ah."

They drank.

"You'll kick his ass if I need you to, right?" Hank said into his cup.

Jen snorted around her sip. "You know I'll throw down anytime, anywhere." 

"There she is." Hank grinned off towards the grill since he wasn't ready to grin right at Jen yet.

"I don't think I'll need to though."

"Yea. then. You'll kick my ass then? For him?"

Jen laughed. "Gladly."

"He's fixing me up pretty good."

"Pfft. Hardly."

They drank.

Jen looked at her shoes. "Sorry. that came out meaner than I meant it to. Just meant like." Jen paused to push her glasses up with the knuckle of her thumb. "You won't even take directions from your GPS there's no way he's  _ fixing  _ you - fuck that still sounds mean. I'm sorry. You-" Jen sighed. "Soda, right?" Jen swished her cup around at Hank. That's on you, good. Good job." Jen grimaced and shut her eyes tight. 

"Thanks Jen."

"Can we stop pretending like we're catching up? Honestly. It was nice seeing you, I want to die."

"Same."

And with that, they parted ways. Hank butted himself into a conversation Connor was having and jingled the keys in his pocket as lightly as he could, aiming for a sweet spot of 'human imperceptible - Connor perceptible'. They'd agreed on that tactic before they'd arrived. Hank was plenty done with being here. 

It was easier for Connor to insist on leaving than it was for Hank. These were his old friends after all, he should want to catch up but… well he'd caught up plenty. Sure enough, Connor neatly ended the conversation and made a gesture of being the one to want to go home. 

They got to the car and Connor's light was yellow, quick firing pulses. Something he didn't understand.

They got in the car before Connor spoke up, "You don't talk much about her. I just assumed she was… awful or…" He trailed off.

"Yea well. It's easier to, I don't know. It's easier to make her seem that way." 

Connor shifted in his seat to face Hank directly, "I didn't want to like her."

"Yea same here babe."

Connor furrowed his eyebrows and frowned. He fished a quarter out from somewhere in his pocket. 

"I'm surprised you didn't do any coin tricks for anyone at the party, they'd of gotten a kick out of it."

Connor didn't seem to want to take the subject change bait. "What was it that…" Connor stopped the quarter over his middle finger, focusing on it with far greater intensity than he ever needed for, well, anything. His LED persisted, yellow yellow yellow.

Hank sighed. "Sometimes you just fall out of love with someone. Even when there's nothing wrong with them."

Connor's LED went red for just a second. Hank reached up from the steering wheel to run his thumb over it. 

"Sometimes you don't though."

\--

At first, in the winter, when things were newer Hank had appreciated that Connor looked mostly human. Save for the LED, you couldn't tell. 

Sort of. 

The longer Hank spent living with Connor the more something deep down in the part of his brain that registered the uncanny valley starting picking things out. Maybe it was summer, sure, androids handled heat differently. Maybe it was Hank though.

Hank's hind-brain keyed in on Connor. All the time. It let him know- hey; Connor 's wearing your shirt did you notice that? Hey, Connor blinks a whole hell of a lot when he's picking out music with dinner, did you notice  _ that _ ? Hey, Connor's not got pants on, did you  _ notice that? _ Hey Connor's laughing,  _ did you notice that? _ Hey, Connor's coolant fans are whirring really loud,  _ did you notice  _ **_that_ ** _?  _ Hey, Connor's got a freckle right on the small of his back,  _ did you  _ **_notice that_ ** _? _ Hey, Connor's skin is glitching out because you're touching him,  **_did you notice that?_ **

Hank's stupid hind-brain was expecting their sexual relationship to be based on actual human biology so, when Connor did things, perfectly normal android things, Hank conflated them with that  _ Uniquely Connor _ classification because he'd never seen these things before. Which made Hank horny, so sue him. Particularly when Connor was right past that cusp of  _ other  _ as he so often was when they fucked. 

Connor was just so different from him. Truly a different species.  _ Interspecies relationship _ , Jesus Fucking H Goddamn Christ. 

When Hank ran his hands gently under Connor's shirt and across his stomach his skin pressed and pulled just like anyone's. He was soft, if you didn't push too hard. When Hank grabbed hard the skin only gave in a little before he was all hard plastic. If Hank squeezed enough, pressing down with his thumbs on Connor's thighs, when Connor was laying in the bed desperately, hands tangled in his own hair, the hologram would give way. Hank liked pressing his thumbs into Connor's thighs often.

Connor liked getting fucked rough. No matter how Hank tried to move slow and gentle Connor didn't let him get away with it. He started off with good intentions, sensitivity settings low, but after a few kisses and gentle wanderings Connor got impatient. He shot up that sensitivity gradient and called Hank  _ 'Lieutenant' _ . Which was... Something else besides weird android shit. Nevermind.

Connor deactivated parts of his skin a few times early on (and every time, later on) when they were just figuring out what it was to have a… Jesus.  a. Fucking. One second... an  _ interspecies relationship. _ And yes, Connor did that with computers, and Hank's phone, and the television, and once when Hank's car broke down in a fit of annoyed desperation while they were waiting for the tow truck. He also often, regularly, delightedly, rubbed the smooth glossy plastic of his thumb right over the head of Hank's cock and it _ did things to him _ . 

He knew there was context there. Context that Hank couldn't ever properly receive. Connor had once tried to explain what he was attempting to transfer. He blushed (blue, did you notice  _ that _ ?) and stuttered through a list of sensations that he and Hank shared. He stopped just shy of saying something more than that. Once he tried to send it to Hank's phone, but all that Hank got was some short, stilted clips of video from Connor's perspective and a long, long, ASCII file that only showed up as:

ˆa‚v‡ÙÖ#ŽY–m4RMiÒéçªï†z´]_EmçW²‰HÓé‡m<�õP«fS.4Œ«¢©[»QÝÄ0 ÿÇÛx»  
4<Ôí¤¿�*yie`¤°À“<Á”‚TI•Î“ì ªtªôèPé$¡²È(n3à®ä Í�9Š«� ®LvÛƒŠ*A™‘Ü0Îà”¥˜6 '™F\³VD•íA•*

And went on and on and  _ on  _ until he gotten overage charges from his carrier. He had to have a very awkward argument with some poor call center tech who was absolutely not paid enough to hear the reasoning behind why Hank wasn't paying these charges and how he'd come to get in this particular situation. Connor had been trying to look properly ashamed from the opposite side of the bed, but was utterly failing at stifling his laughter.

So the plastic posed a problem. So did a particular shade of purple.

Hank was way more embarrassed about the color. 

Hank thought about Connor's LED a lot. He figured out that the slow roll of blue was contentment, the gentle flashes of yellow intermixed was desire. He determined when Connor was annoyed before he expressed it, when he was thinking about a television show versus the facts of a case. He didn't feel guilty about it, about being able to just look at Connor after a while and read him, because Connor could see his heart rate and stress level from across the block. 

Androids had blue, yellow and red. In the operation manuals it was pretty clear that Blue was picked to represent  _ idle-active _ , yellow was  _ processing  _ and red meant  _ error, you've fucked up _ . Except those idiots at Cyberlife thought all they needed was three states.

Connor didn't really mix colors, that's not what the LED was for. But Hank was a human, and human minds muddled vision, muddled everything, because human minds were for generalized pattern recognition. So when Connor went blueredblueredbluered Hank saw purple. And blue didn't mean idle anymore it meant  _ good _ , and red didn't mean  _ error  _ anymore it meant, or maybe it always meant, Connor's system was experiencing something it wasn't made for. Hank wondered if Connor saw it as purple or if he saw blueredblueredbluered. Hank wondered if Connor saw every individual pixel in the television or if he formed them together into an interpretation. He thought,  _ maybe _ , because when Connor liked a show he called it up and synched it in his HUD, rather than watching TV. Though, maybe that was just so he could get up and putter around the house without missing anything.

In any case Connor's LED went purple when he came and Hank was obsessed with that. He didn't want to ask if Connor saw it as purple, instead he stumbled awkwardly through his own insistence that he'd just felt like buying Connor a gift, randomly, and would he please put on this purple shirt. Right now. Please. Connor gave him that wry half-smile and obliged.

Hank wasn't sure why he'd thought he'd be able to get through the afternoon as normal. Like Connor wasn't wearing something that Hank had managed to conflate with Connor's gasps and pleas and moans. 

Hank struggled with the top button, sometimes his hands shook when he was sober and it didn't help that the shirt was still brand new and stiff, so the buttonholes didn't exactly want to cooperate with him. Connor was leaning against the back of the sofa, pulling Hank forward, hooking one leg around Hank's thigh. Hank got one button undone and Connor whined his name, teasing him for going so slow. Connor was not a fan of going slow. So Hank hooked two fingers at the top of the shirt and pulled down, tearing the rest of the little fucking buttons off and licking desperately at Connor's nipple. 

"Hank! I didn't even get to wear it out before you ruined it!" Connor said, trying to sell a chiding tone but laughing in spite of himself. He had this jittery, surprised laugh (did you notice  _ that _ ?) that Hank loved. He had this whole everything that Hank loved. Hank ran his hands down Connor's stomach and around to his back, pressing into the hard plastic before relenting and smoothing over soft skin. He wasn't sorry. The shirt hadn't really been a gift for Connor.

Connor didn't have pheromones, he didn't sweat, he didn't have a taste or much at all, beyond the visual, for a biological creature to latch onto as a subtext for arousal. Sometimes he forgot to manually dilate his pupils or stutter his breathing, or actually breathe at all. Sometimes it was the forgetting that actually did it for Hank, rather than the performance of arousal that he was supposed to want.

Hank was immensely relieved when Connor had decided to buy a dick and an asshole, though he wasn't ever going to say that to Connor because he didn't want Connor to think it was a requirement. Hank tried very hard to not betray his age when he dropped to his knees. He pulled Connor's cock into his mouth and Connor inhaled gently, every time (Hey, did you  _ notice that _ ?). It didn't taste like anything. Connor ran warm when he was hard so it did smell a little like hot plastic (Hank,  _ did you notice  _ **_that_ ** ?). Like a patio chair that had been sitting out in the summer sun. 

Hank wished he hadn't noticed that. Connor wound his fingers through Hank's hair, tugging gently, He keened low, begging, "Hank I'm-- please.  _ Fuck me. _ "

Hank was very susceptible to Pavlovian conditioning and Connor's desperate pleas. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The council of DBH dirty fanfic is called to order. Today's topic: kinks. Brilliant authors present their works, stunning wireplay, some hardcore BDSM, gunplay, a truly staggering presentation from hand fetishists. The council nods in unison. Excellent work everyone!  
> Dust stumbles out of a Lowe's, drunk, dragging something. He flips his clip-on sunglasses down in the heat of the noon sun. He is late to the council meeting, kicking open the doors.  
> Everyone stares, aghast, as he smacks a glossy plastic deep purple lawn chair down in the center of the room and collapses into it, sipping a burnt latte.  
> "Alright, listen up nerds, I'm about to make it weird."


	4. It always ends eventually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Autumn comes around again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small content warning for a panic attack and suicidal thoughts. I made myself very sad and anxious while writing this. Everything is okay in the end.

It used to be that Hank never thought about what happens after Summer. It's that one hole in the wall, the one stain by the coffee pot, junk mail on the countertop. You leave it at first, you'll get to it later, and then later your eyes skate over it. It's been there so long by now that it's just part of the house.

It's much easier to avoid the chores when you live alone. Hank knows Connor doesn't like it when he leaves dishes on the table, less than 5 feet from the sink. But he still puts them there and forgets. Hank knows that Connor is frustrated by Hank's inability to plan for 'after summer' but he still lets himself get distracted whenever Connor brings it up.

One of these years the effects of global warming were sure to cook the whole of the earth permanently, like a corpse in a car, and then summer will be eternal. It would go just like that; spring first, everyone remembers what it's like to be alive, summer starts, the apocalypse hits around maybe mid-July and then it just stays summer forever. Hank is banking on that.

It's more than a little frustrating that Connor thinks about the post-summer like it's something to look forward to. He keeps making plans for them. Such and such day is Markus' gallery opening, _we have to go_ . Some other day is North's deviancy anniversary, _it'll be so fun._ Why did all of Connor's friends have events in Autu-- right. Right, duh.

Hank had trouble bringing up this frustration outright so he just let it go, just this one time, with a small scowl at nothing. Next time Connor brings it up he'll... Next time Connor says anything about the future Hank will cave and talk about it. If only to get it to stop.

Connor brings it up by way of Josh's activation day. They're sitting in bed, Hank with the pages curled around some old paperback on it's fifth re-read. Connor is staring forward at a blank wall, which means he's doing some freaky robot shit in his head. Mail apparently. An invite. For the post-summer.  Immediately Hank's shoulders go tense. He said next time and...

And he fails to bring it up. Whatever, the moment's past. He'll bring it up next time.

Or…  if he waits long enough summer will end and then he won't have to worry about talking about post-summer because it will be- nevermind. Connor says something that Hank misses, because his mind is somewhere else.

Connor tilts his head a little to the side and smiles expectantly at Hank. Hank's not sure what the correct thing to do is so he just says "sure" and shrugs. Connor rolls his eyes but smiles.

He stares back to the wall, off in that middle distance and Hank turns back to his book thinking he got away with it, when Connor continues, as easy as anything; "Do you think that Androids should have birthdays? Is the idea of a birth strictly mammalian? In essence it's a celebration of the individual. Is activation the equivalent or is deviancy? It doesn't really roll off the tongue- 'deviancy day'" Connor scrunches up his nose. "The concept is important for humans-"

Connor continued on with his musings but Hank had stopped listening at 'birthday'. He slapped down his book and interrupted. "Is today your birthday? Did I forget your birthday? Fuck."

Connor stopped mid sentence, his mouth still hanging with his last word, he cycled yellow and smiled. "No, Hank. We have not yet approached the first date to consider."

"Good. Jesus shit, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

Connor's face softened from the neutral stiff expression he used when explaining long trains of thought. He laid his head against Hank's shoulder. "Some Androids don't like acknowledging their activation day, and prefer to note the day of their deviancy. I find myself struggling to pin down if I should count build 50 as my activation or build 52-"

Hank likes it when he can catch Connor in one of these long meandering topics. He leans back against the headboard and sets his book off to the side. He's listening, really. But he's listing to the lilt of Connor's voice more than the things he is saying. At some point, he drifts off, still sitting up against the headboard.

\--

For what it's worth Hank's normal loop of thought over the next few days changes dramatically. The preamble to post summer is replaced with outright panic. He can't fuck this one up. It's important. It's his first fucking birthday.

_What does Connor like?_

Why hadn't Hank insisted on celebrating Christmas last year or remembered Valentine's Day? He could have fucked up then, and maybe gotten the hang of what Connor liked by now. Jesus. Think. Think Anderson. What does Connor like? You've been living with him for close to a year how do you not know anything?

He's been doing things all year, what the fuck does he _like_ ? _Dogs? What the fuck does that even mean? Everyone Likes dogs. A puppy? Get him a puppy?_ Shit, there's no way they have the time or the lifestyle to raise a puppy. They both work jobs that demand overtime and odd hours. There is no way.

Music? Connor likes music. Concert tickets?

_That was your first fucking date idea Anderson you can't just have the one trick. What the fuck will he think if you just go to another concert? It's all shitty venues and washed up bands from here on out, please don't stop loving me._

It is August tenth. It's not yet Autumn. But when Hank goes outside he catches that whiff of leaves about to turn. It's still summer. It's not time yet. But Hank, for the first year, is dreading Autumn instead of letting the resignation wash over him. It feels like the end, and maybe if he can just get a good enough present for Connor's birthday it will… what? Stop time?

Hank finds himself that afternoon looking through a series of vlogs Connor made. It's his latest in a long line of hobbies. This one at least stuck around for the longest. Connor started vlogging his hobbies a while back, but eventually the vlogging became the hobby. His first videos are bad, no backing music, impersonal lists of tasks and supplies. They are also, ironically, more popular. When he first started he got a lot of interest from people who knew of him from the revolt. But his videos sucked, so viewership dropped off. Anyone interested in the life and thoughts of a controversial android figure doesn't give a shit about furnace repair. Or at least the venn diagram is small.  

But his latest videos are different. He doesn't have the media attention anymore but he's gotten better at expressing himself. Hank's favorite one is where Connor and Josh go graffitti hunting. The point of the video is to make a case that the Jericho graffiti needs to be recognized as historically important, but Connor keeps cutting in edits of Josh looking at the map, confused, while the graffiti they are looking for is plainly obvious in the background.

Hank hasn't seen every video so he is surprised at how many short snippets there are where Connor tours places he and Hank went. Sometimes before he invited Hank, and sometimes after, where he gently talks about Hank without naming him outright. There are also so very many clips of sumo bounding off, sometimes with his leash still attached while Connor runs after him.

It gives Hank an idea.

\--

August 15th, Connor's decided activation day, comes too fast. They are heading to a party at the new Jericho building that Connor insisted on organizing.

Connor looks amazing. He always looks amazing but tonight particularly so. It's not that disheveled look that Hank thinks about sometimes (often), just the opposite in fact. His white button up has a blue lining, only really visible when the sleeves are rolled up, which they are. Hes switched out his normal dark jeans for black slacks. Rather than his usual jacket he has opted for a double layered vest, gray underneath and black for the outer shell, a small black chain connects the sides of the outer shell, while the inner is buttoned. His tie is black with a hint of blue iridescence. He straightens it when Hank sees him.

Hank realizes that he can't possibly hand Connor his stupid present in a room full of people. He won't be able to. Hank fusses with the envelope in his interior jacket pocket. It's not. He can't. It's so fucking stupid.

Connor is fussing over the unruly curls of his hair when Hank holds it out. He doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything. Connor takes it gently and Hank scratches at his beard and shoves his hands into his pockets.

Connor smiles and presses at the contents, the envelope is massively overstuffed. He opens the envelope to find a card. The front of it has a transformer holding a bunch of balloons. A big blue "10" is over the transformer's head but the zero is scribbled out with black sharpie. Connor laughs at it so Hank laughs a little too, tension easing off for a moment, until Connor opens the card.

The contents, the real present, falls out of the card. Connor snatches it fast before it hits the ground.

In an instant Hank realizes what a colossally bad present this was. It's not even anything really. He didn't buy anything. He had this old map in his car's glove box. Why did he think this was a good idea?

Connor unfolds the whole thing. Hank wishes he hadn't. He didn't think about the whole thing when he was putting this together. He just unfolded the little portion he needed.

Connor unfolds the _entire_ thing. Hank stops looking at it.

It's a North American map. It's worn at the corners, mostly in the Great Lakes region where Hank usually needed it. Fuck. He could have bought a new goddamn map at least. Hank looks away from it again.

Hank has drawn a messy line in red sharpie South on I-75. Well in truth there is a little red line along the 59 before Hank realized that'd hit the Canadian border - they still aren't allowing Androids in the country and border control isn't known for its romantic atmosphere. Hank aborted the line by drawing a picture of two stick figures flipping off the border.

Instead the red line hugs the southern edge of Lake Erie. He's marked little spots along the way. A little stop at Presque Isle where he's drawn a bad rendition of Sumo. A stop in Buffalo to see the falls. A little arrow to Goat Island - Another arrow nearby - _Love Canal's not as nice as it sounds_. Then on to Letchworth Park, hes drawn a crude little house and the car in the middle of the park.

Hanks looks away again. He's not sure why he keeps looking up in the first place.

He hears paper rustle. An apology is right on the tip of his tongue when he is crushed backward against the door with Connors smile at his lips.

"When?" is all Connor asks.

"Next summer, or spring, or-" and he's interrupted again. Nearly getting the wind knocked out of him with the force of Connor's hug.

"I love it. It's going to be so fun."

And Hank thinks that maybe, it's possible, that it's true.

\--

Connor's Birthday was over.

Which meant that August was ending soon.

So summer was over.

Shit.

\--

The end of August came and that meant the school buses were back. Hank woke up to their screaming. Again. Connor was tangled up with him, and he woke up fast because he never really slept. Instead of letting Hank curl under a pillow Connor pulled Hank close and Hank gripped desperately, sobbing into Connor's sternum. He would have been in the fifth grade, fuck. Nevermind that.

Nevermind.

 **_Shit_ **. He'd been doing so well, and now it was autumn again. He'd been doing really well, he'd been happy, he'd gotten better. He'd made it through spring without letting on to this problem, and summer had lulled him into a false sense of security. It wasn't fair that it was autumn again and Hank gives up in autumn.

"Shhh, I have you," Connor whispered, stroking circles in Hank's back. Passing a thumb over Hank's temple, like Hank always did for him.

He'd been getting _better_.

Hank could see the relapse right in front of him. Hank would… and then Connor would see he was just caught in a loop. He'd see that Hank wasn't worth the effort because, no matter what, autumn comes around again. Connor would go find someone who didn't break on such a schedule. And then Hank would be back under the pillow, shaking alone, instead if slowly calming down while Connor rubbed circles into an LED that Hank didn't even have.

Connor kissed his hair and made soft gentle sounds. This was it, this was the payment for Connor being there for him. This was the price, he'd be the one thing that Hank grew to rely on and then he'd realize Hank was fucked and broken and he'd leave, and then Hank would crash harder than he ever had. It always ends eventually.

He had to hold on while he could. So he clung to Connor every morning that week and made them both late for work, like that wasn't going to be one of the things that eventually drove Connor away. Connor hated being late for work.

Connor never coaxed Hank out of bed before he was ready, but eventually Hank's fear of irritating Connor won out over how good it felt to just lay there. Hank pulled himself out of bed by 9 am, then 9:15, then 10, later and later each day. Except for one day, Connor pulled him back down.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"Work." Hank muttered, sour.

"Not today." Connor said, beaming up and insisting upon Hank's shoulders like Hank really had any say in the matter.

Hank flopped back down grimly.

"I scheduled some PTO on your behalf, and for me as well. Happy Birthday."

Oh.

Oh right, his birthday was in Autumn too.

He could only see half of Connor's smile behind the fluffy white pillow they shared. "I was hoping we could lay here until lunch, maybe watch something, and then you would drive us down the Huron and we could look at the trees."

Hank was not quite sure what stroke of luck had granted him permission to lay in bed longer, with Connor no less, perfect tousled hair and delicate blush on his cheeks (he was favoring a pink tint these days).

It's… nice. They do just what Connor suggested. They lay around for a while, Hank makes himself something for lunch, and they load Sumo into the car and drive up.

It's hard to be here like this. Hank is struggling with staying here in the moment. He's put the dishes on the counter, and instead of telling him to fix it, Connor's pulling him in for a kiss. Hank's left the junk mail on the counter-top and rather than a pointed look and a frown, Connor's fixing a flyaway hair. He doesn't. He hasn't earned this. Because it's still-

Connor's handed him something. He's smiling. He's beautiful. Hank shakes his head. They drove up the Huron and they're sitting in a park. Connor's let Sumo off the leash. This is a birthday card. Hank wonders when senility starts in his family. He never kept up with the family after his mother passed.

Connor's smiling at him.

The card is a photo of a purple harebell and Hank laughs a little, right before he shoots Connor a look. He's sure, absolutely confident, he's never shared that with him. Not for the first time he wonders the full extent of Connor's pre-constructive abilities. It sure feels like mind reading.

Something falls out from the inside of the card while Hank muses about it, he's fast enough to look down to watch it fall, maybe look at it a little stupidly. Connor catches it. Of course he does.

Connor hands the map to Hank.

Right there branching out to the west from their home, where the red line Hank drew begins, Connor's drawn a line in blue. A perfect… a perfect line, not like Hank's false starts and shaky hand. It's crisp, the sharpie barely even bled into little nodes of ink where the line changes at a sharp angle. Hank laughs, shoots Connor a look. It's a little on the nose.

The line goes west. There's stops along the way, average driving speeds and proposed rest points. All the way out to Washington state.

"I want to see the ocean." Connor says. "I want to see a lot of things but for now." Connor taps the map and leans against Hank's shoulder.

Hank kisses Connor's forehead.

He doesn't want to leave junk mail on the counter-top anymore. He's not sure if he can bring his dishes that 5 feet to the sink yet, but maybe, if he sees he's left it there, he won't let his eyes pass over it. And they'll go to the ocean next summer.

 

\--

Hank is able to keep that positive energy going for a grand total of three days. It's a record, actually. Speaking from the outside, it's progress. Connor notices it to be sure.

But Hank comes home from work, and he drops the mail on the counter-top, bills and all. He looks at it. He fully remembers his intent, thinks a little bit about the nature of a metaphor and wonders how much mind reading Connor is capable of, and turns away from it on purpose.

From that point it's easy.

The next day Hank could feel the slow decline starting. Easing him down like a comfortable mattress. It started with 'why bother' why bother fighting it off? It was autumn again and his birthday was past and why bother. Why bother cooking? No point to it, everyone dies of something, why not die of cholesterol. Plus, with takeout he doesn't have to worry about dishes on the kitchen table and bothering to try to pick them up. Nevermind. Why bother regulating his drinks? No reason. It's not like he was going to get over his crippling dependency by having one fewer drink every night, so why not have two more than normal while he's at it? He already failed to kick the habit. Why lie. Why bother? He slid down slowly, somewhere in his mind thinking if he started the slide early and kept at it then the sickening drop off into that one day of the year, followed so fast by that other day of the year, wouldn't be so steep.

He was wrong. He woke up on September 23rd and wanted to kill himself. Nevermind. Ignore that part. He was doing _BETTER_.

The drop came all the same, and sent all that much lower after his two week vigil of _why fucking try._ He knew this wasn't even the lowest. He missed Jen still sometimes. Fuck. Nevermind. Jen would tell him to fuck off and die and they'd scream or break shit - nevermind - or just not see each other through the booze for these two weeks.

Fuck. is it too early for a drink?

Nevermind.

Why does he keep trying to ignore it. Why do I bother? Why bother with the nevermind.

He wanted to get drunk and die. Nevermind.

Fuck that. I wanted Connor to leave me so I don't have to fuck it up- never

Fuck

-Fuck it up on my

-Fuck

Nevermind.

Fuck it up on my own.

I've been doing so well.

But he gave up again

Even with someone else here to fix me- fuck.

I don't want to think about it. I don't want to do this anymore. I'm so sick of waking - fuck.

I'm so tired of waking up.

 

Fuck nevermind.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

\--

 

Connor fixed his tie. He fretted over his hair for a moment. It was a rough morning. Probably the roughest morning in a long time.

Connor came back to bed with ice water and a granola bar. He held Hank close and called them both out of work. Around noon Hank was able to handle the granola bar.

It had been a long time since Hank was happy. Or, not happy, that was to strong of an emotion. His therapist was helping him work out nuances and Connor needed to practice. _Happy_ was unmaintainable, a high point that only was notable when it was an outlier. It had been a long time since Hank was content.

Connor knew that the months surrounding Cole's death were a dangerous time for Hank. He didn't know how much, Connor had seen the tail end of it but he wasn't quite fully sentient then. His memories were tinged with facts and stats and commands rather than genuine observation. Captain Fowler had told him some of what to look out for, and how to help him. But an email from a good friend was just like his machine made memories. It was information without experience.

The truth of it was so much more

It turns out it is difficult, difficult beyond what Connor could believe, to watch Hank willingly fall back down into... into what Connor fast recognised as his _programming_ . Maybe not programming made for a purpose but nonetheless. It scared him. The way Hank lost grip on his perspective. The way he went through the motions of life, the way he numbed all of it with alcohol. In the totality of their relationship, a little over a year now and only a month or so until their romantic relationship's anniversary, Connor hadn't seen Hank the _machine_. Hank800 whose purpose was to prevent himself from mourning, so that his son wouldn't ever truly be gone.

It was difficult. Difficult to be wrong so often, when he thought some gift or idea or command would snap Hank out of it. Difficult when Connor felt like sinking down with stress only to realize that Hank wasn't there, like he usually was, to hold Connor up. Difficult to wonder if this was going to stop, and when. And… and how.

Because Hank still had the gun. In the gun safe sure, and untouched for so long. But it existed in their home.

Connor had tacked up their road map nearby, in the best calculated line if sight for anyone heading toward the gun safe, without it being too obvious what he was doing. Hank had promised him another year already. Connor _had_ never, _would_ never, get a better gift than that.

Nines once told him how frustrated he was that Connor deviated by his own will. How that separated the two of them in a fundamental manner. Connor got to choose, ultimately, the manner by which he could accept being in the world. Nines didn't.

So Connor tries his best to let Hank re-approach the world on his own terms. He can't force Hank better.

But he can be here. He can refuse to let Hank push him away. When Hank finally reaches out he texts him ' _havin a bad mrning, will you come bck to bed_ ' - that's a victory.

\--

They were out walking Sumo when the first snowflakes of the season came down. Connor was in Hank's old driving jacket, with a wholly unnecessary scarf around his neck just because he liked it.

Connor stopped for a moment on their way through the park, seeking out Hank's hand as he did, and Hank found himself pulled momentarily between the excited curiosity of a massive St. Bernard and the immobile strength of a superhuman machine.

Connor was rooted in place. Hank and Sumo had no choice but to give in, joining him and gazing up with only the briefest of glances at his still blue LED, at his small smile, at the way he crinkled his nose when a snowflake landed on it. They had the park to themselves, halfway between the gazebo with it's fairy lights already on for the evening and the small bridge over the soon-to-be-frozen brook. The sky was overcast and gray with the faintest pink around the edges, and the trees were silhouettes against the yellow street lights just outside the park. Massive flakes of snow wafted into existence and clumped down around the ground, melting where the ground was still too warm.

The flakes landed on Connor's soft black curls of hair, they didn't melt. They just stuck there perfectly, inhumanly pristine, an accidental grace that only happens in magazine photos or to people whose body didn't need to radiate heat. The snowflakes melted in Hank's hair, making him look damp and haggard.

Connor squeezed Hank's hand. Hank supposed, he didn't need to worry so much about how the world affected him and Connor differently. He got to look at Connor, and Connor seemed fine with things melting at Hank's body heat.

He wasn't ready to feel better. For some reason, Connor didn't force him to. He made Hank do a lot, shower, actually call out of work himself, walk with him and Sumo through the park. He didn't try to tell Hank about his progress and all his successes and how he should feel better. He didn't make Hank feel guilty for not being better yet.

He'd gotten through it. Was it easier this year, or harder? He'd relapsed, he always relapsed. He relapses in autumn. And autumn comes around again and again. But it's winter now, and Hank is supposed to feel guilty in winter, for relapsing, for obsessing, for still being broken. Only… He doesn't.

There are two kinds of responsible. There's the kind where you have to manage the aftermath of what happens. You have to do it or it won't get done. The other kind is something deeper. You're _responsible_ . It occurred because of _you_ . Because of a moral failing on _your_ part. One is practical and one is ethereal. And Hank's been conflating the two all this time.

Hank drinks. And yes, he needs to be responsible for that. He relapsed. That's his responsibility. But it's possible that it's not because of a moral failing. Maybe it's not fault in his person. Maybe it's not something he _deserves_ because there's something wrong with _him_.

So.

He doesn't feel guilty. He feels something else. Practical responsibility. He fucked up. Sure. He'll un-fuckup. It's pops into his mind so easily, like it didn't take a full fifty four years getting here.

Another thought is there too, it'll always be there. 'You relapsed,' and 'you're not all better.' Except it's not quite that. It's 'you're not all better, yet.' That last part is important.

It's true that Autumn may come around again, but rest assured, it always ends eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to trade in perfect for done and get this chapter up. I hope you liked it and I hope you liked the whole story. 
> 
> I am so sorry this took so long! Life's been challenging lately, we moved into a new house and I spent a lot of the winter making sure the roof.... worked as a roof. As smart and responsible adults me and the BF bought a house in winter that had like only 2/3rds of a functional roof :D If you, like me, ever worry if other people have their life more together than you; we fucking don't.
> 
> I have some original writing up through the links on my twitter. Including a proto-version of the first story in this series, told via original characters.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to contact me:  
> tumblr; [@dustatdusk](http://dustatdusk.tumblr.com/)  
> twitter; [@DustinLoam](https://twitter.com/DustinLoam) \- I post links to my original work here


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